


this is what i live for

by b_o_i



Series: shiro gets a present [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, like v briefly, space politics lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_o_i/pseuds/b_o_i
Summary: That was the right thing to say, Lotor’s smug smile against the curve of his shoulder.“Of course not,” he agrees, “Because who do you belong to you?”Keith swallows down whatever little dignity he likes to imagine he has, so used to it he barely even thinks about it, “You,” he says, “I belong to you, your majesty.”





	this is what i live for

**Author's Note:**

> this..........actually turned out a little less porn-y than i was going for???? thats a first lmaoo
> 
> anyways, i had a few ppl asking abt a sequel w everyone's fav prince, and i was like wow,,,,,thts a rlly good idea,,,,,and here we are

 

The prince isn’t in his quarters when Keith is escorted back. 

He can tell as soon as he steps in, door sliding shut behind him—there’s always some kind of movement when he is, whether it be complaining or planning or talking to himself. For now, it’s quiet. A meeting or something, probably, Keith thinks. Or training. Maybe he went to the ship’s brothel when he got bored. 

Either way, Keith is glad for the time alone. It gives him a chance to peel off the dirty silks hanging off his shoulders and step into the bathing room to scrub himself down for a few minutes. That cell floor was dirty. 

He winces when he washes his neck, the feeling of the Champion’s (Shiro’s, he thinks vaguely, voice surprisingly soft when he wasn’t telling him to back off or fucking him into the floor) hand around his throat etched into his skin. He wonders if it’ll bruise, and wonders what the prince will think of that. 

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. He finishes washing himself, pulls on those dark purple silks Lotor likes, and is making himself comfortable on the huge bed when the prince walks in. 

He looks tired, Keith thinks, almost as tired as Keith feels. It’s been a long day. 

Nevertheless, Lotor’s mouth curves into a half-smile when he sees Keith waiting for him. He hears the clink of armor being peeled off, and then the prince is at his back, big hands resting on his hips.

“How was your little visit?” he purrs. Keith can’t yet tell whether this means he’s in a good or bad mood, so he takes a neutral route.

He hums vaguely, “It was…interesting.” 

“Interesting?” Lotor repeats, sliding further up onto the bed. _Elaborate._

Keith shrugs, “He wasn’t interested at first. He was…odd. Not what I expected.” 

“And what was that?” Lotor asks, hands roaming casually and shamelessly. Keith wonders why he cares so much—he’s either much more relaxed than usual, or he’s waiting for something.

Again, Keith shrugs, leaning into the prince’s hands, “He’s ruthless in the arena. It took more than I expected to get him ruthless with me, too.” 

Lotor huffs a laugh against the back of his neck. 

“I would’ve thought so,” he says, “The two of you are similar, in everything but ears, eyes, and color.” 

Keith feels his blood run cold. “Are we?” he asks. Knows the prince can feel his tension. 

“You are,” Lotor says, “Could it be we’ve found your other half?” 

One of Keith’s main selling points when he was being…auctioned off was his _“mystery”_ —everyone knew he was a halfbreed, rare enough on its own—but no one (minus Keith, of course) knew what he was half _of,_ other than Galra. It made him more _exotic_ , the man had said, more interesting. Lotor had certainly taken an interest—secretly, Keith thought it might’ve had something to do with being half-Galra himself, but he’d never dare to say it aloud. That was something no one talked about to the prince’s face.

“Perhaps,” Keith makes himself say, and tacks on a “your majesty” at the end. 

Keith’s always known where he’s from, and sometimes suspected that Lotor knew that he knew, but for now, Lotor hums, the vibrations against Keith’s back sending shivers down his spine, and lets the topic drop. 

Instead, he asks, “Did he perform well, at least?” hands groping at Keith’s thighs, even though he knows exactly how they feel by now.

Too conditioned to be embarrassed anymore (the beginning was horrible, he remembers, everything lewd and uncomfortable), he nods honestly. 

He’s not sure whether that was a good or bad decision when Lotor’s hand curls lightly over his throat, resting his fingers—longer than Shiro’s had been—directly over the bruises Shiro had left. 

“Better than me?” he asks, mock sadness in his voice. 

“N-No, your majesty,” Keith says automatically, and then, because he knows Lotor, “No one could ever fuck me as well as you do.” 

That was the right thing to say, Lotor’s smug smile against the curve of his shoulder. 

“Of course not,” he agrees, “Because who do you belong to you?” 

Keith swallows down whatever little dignity he likes to imagine he has, so used to it he barely even thinks about it, “You,” he says, “I belong to you, your majesty.” 

Lotor rewards him with a kiss to the curve of his jaw, surprisingly tender. Then he grips his hair, twists him around, and pushes him further onto his knees until he’s level with his crotch. “Show me,” he says, and the tenderness is gone. 

Keith gets to work immediately, kissing and licking at Lotor through the thin pants he wears under his armor, sighing when a big hand rests in his hair. Lotor settles back on the bed, leaning against the wall. Keith goes without protest, without stopping—the prince likes it when Keith acts desperate for it. 

Lotor is bigger than the Champion—Shiro, he reminds himself; it’s been so long since he’s met someone with a new name—in both size and length—which is expected, seeing as he’s taller than both of them (not as tall as Sendak or many of the other generals; another half-Galra side effect). Still, Keith takes him down his throat with ease, choking only when Lotor tugs him further onto his dick. The prince hums, pleased; Keith knows that he likes the feeling of Keith gagging around him.

It’s when he can feel the grip on his hair tighten and the prince’s breath hitch in that way it always does when he’s close, that there’s a knock on the door.

“Who _is it_?” Lotor asks, irritation clear in his voice even as he doesn’t stop thrusting into Keith’s mouth. 

The door cracks open, and someone—some general or officer or something, probably—peeks his head in. Lotor still doesn’t stop, and Keith flushes as he feels unknown eyes rake over him where he’s bent forward on his knees, silks hanging loosely off of one shoulder.

Above him, Lotor sighs, “What do you want?” he asks; stops moving, but doesn’t take his dick out of Keith’s mouth. 

The general clears his throat, flustered, “Your father asked me to remind you about the meeting that will be held…soon. One of the Voltron lions has been allegedly—“

_“Don’t_ talk about these things so freely, imbecile,” Lotor scoffs, shoving Keith off of him and sipping up his pants. The general quickly looks away from the prince, but doesn’t have the decency not to stare at Keith, who shifts onto his stomach.

“Of course, your highness,” he says, “I apologize.” 

Lotor just sighs, gesturing vaguely, “Run along, I’ll be there shortly.”

With a quick salute and a vrepit sa, the door slides shut. 

“Ugh,” the prince groans, “Be ready for me when I get back.” 

Keith just nods, and soon he is alone again.

 

When Lotor does come back, he’s _angry_. Not the restrained kind of anger he wears when he’s irritated, or the anger he wears when he wants to intimidate. It’s the insulted, bitter, hateful kind of angry that only comes after long talks with his father or losing a battle or something of the sort. 

Keith barely has time to sit up before he’s being shoved back onto the bed, a clawed hand around his neck. 

_“Dare_ to tell _me_ I’m not the rightful heir?” he’s muttering, “And Father didn’t disagree, that bastard—when I get my fucking hands on you, you’ll—“

“Your majesty,” Keith tries to start, but Lotor slaps him across the face. He doesn’t want to speak right now. 

Keith is still reeling from the slap, but he knows enough to lay still and accept this, knows it’ll be over quicker if he doesn’t struggle. His clothes are pushed up instead of torn off, Lotor hand still firm around his throat, and Keith arches up into the touch, breathless. 

In the space of a minute, Lotor flips him over, yanks his hips up, shoves his legs apart with his knee, and pushes in—no warning, no preparation. Keith has to bite back a yell when his arm is twisted behind his back.

It’s a power thing, Keith knows, the power of having something to hold down and fuck, something to be i control of, to own entirely, in body and soul.

He fists his free hand in the sheets as Lotor presses his head into the bed, and tells himself that this is better than the alternative. Better than being in some brothel somewhere, or being passes around from one general to another; Lotor is soft with him sometimes, and sometimes even makes it good for him, while the other options would leave him sore and bruising and ruined (isn’t he already?). 

It’s better, this is better; sometimes the prince takes it out on other members of his harem, sometimes he makes Keith come. This is better. 

Lotor digs his claws into the back of Keith’s neck, and he can’t help crying out this time. He hears he prince laugh breathlessly above him, and knows that’s what he wants—he wants to make someone cry, wants to own them completely, wants to humiliate them the way he was humiliated. 

Lotor yanks his head back by his hair and then shoves him back into the mattress, and Keith feels reflexive tears gathering in his eyes despite his efforts. He scrapes up Keith’s back, hard enough to leave scratches but not draw blood, and Keith whimpers, trying to shift away. 

He thinks that’s what does it; Lotor is always too excited when he’s like this, pushes too much too quickly, and it’s probably the whimper and the way Keith clenches down around him that have the prince coming, digging his claws into Keith’s shoulder to hold him in place as he does. 

There are a few moment of silence as Lotor pants above him, and then he’s pulling out, cum dripping down Keith’s trembling legs, and shoving Keith out of the way so he has room to collapse on the bed.

“Clean yourself,” he snarls after a moment, swatting Keith’s ass; Keith quickly scrambles off the bed, hurrying to the bathing area for the second time that day, glad for an excuse to get away. He never can tell what Lotor will do—beyond holding him down and fucking him raw—when he’s in one of these moods. 

He scrubs himself down quickly, pulls his silks back on, and crawls back onto the bed carefully. Wordlessly, Lotor gestures to the space beside him, arm outstretched like he’s making room for him. 

_Oh,_ Keith thinks, _it’s one of those nights._

He lays carefully next to the prince, shining down when he feels fingers in his hair to make it more comfortable on Lotor’s arm. (Lotor comes down from these moods like you come down from an adrenaline rush. When he does, he either has Keith sleeps at the foot of the bed—maybe even the floor, if he’s feeling cruel enough, or the bathing area—or has Keith curl into him so he can play with his hair and ask his opinions as if he were truly some kind of lover. Tonight, it’s apparently the second; Keith never knows which one is worse.)

“I deserve to inherit my father’s throne, do I not?” he hears after a moment. 

Keith doesn’t even tense anymore, just says “Of course, your majesty,’’ letting his eyes flutter shut, “You are the best choice.”

“Am I?”

Keith nods against Lotor’s hand, “You’re the only one with the true right to rule. Everyone knows that.”

“My father doesn’t seem to know that,” Lotor huffs bitterly. In these moments, the prince sounds more childlike, more normal, than he ever does. Keith never knows if it scares him or not. 

“Then your father is blind.”

“Careful,” Lotor says sharply, “That’s your emperor you’re insulting,” and Keith fears that he’s gone too far this time, made a mistake.

“I apologize, sir,” he says quickly, formally, “I simply meant that he does not yet realize what an asset you are—what potential you have.” 

Lotor hums, “True.” and then, a moment later, “Someday I will have his respect; he’ll have to accept me as his true heir.”

Keith just nods, “I’m sure he will, your majesty.”

 

Two nights later, Lotor attends The Champion’s next match, and brings Keith along with him. 

He sits, legs crossed, across the prince’s lap, something pretty the prince can wear around and make a show of owning, but he doesn’t mind so much this time. 

Shiro’s fights have always interested him, but now that he’s seen the man up close, felt his hands around his neck, felt him inside of him, it’s different. The man down there is more than an act for entertainment—like Keith, he didn’t choose this path, but he’s here anyways—and if he dies, Keith thinks he might be a little sad. 

If he doesn’t die, Keith wonders if Lotor will send him to visit his cell again. 

 


End file.
